187
by ManofManyHats
Summary: They know how to take a life, are expected to and are willing, but that doesn't make it any easier.
1. On Red Robes

_AN: This has been sitting idle on my drive for a while. A little introspection exercise. More chapters, each concerning a different character and their view on the fragility of life, will come eventually. Why do I do these things to myself._

 _Also, that summary is subject to change._

* * *

As someone who'd been practically the world's universal enemy at one point, with a confrontational persona to match, it'd be simple to assume that the Firelord had sent a number of souls to their graves, from every side of the war. Though the thought wasn't pleasant, even those closest to him thought so. It was in the way he held his head, stiffened his jaw, it's in the coldness he battled with; it's a tangible aura, and it screamed anything but innocent _._

And of course, there's the scar. It speaks of a battle, even if Zuko himself never chooses to acknowledge it. His silence leads to the assumption as well. A duel, two parties enter, one leaves. And Zuko was alive.

All in all, if you were to tell Aang or Katara or whoever that Zuko hadn't _killed_ anyone, in self-defense or otherwise, ever, in his lifetime, they'd believe you, but with an eyebrow raised. It'd be the truth, though, up till tonight, anyway.

Sure, there'd been a few instances you could argue for. He'd burned a few villages, sunk a ship or two, but nothing came of it, last he'd heard. Then of course, there was the Blue Spirit fiasco where he'd knocked out some guards and sent some soldiers plummeting down those towers, but that was still a stretch; a painful fall, yes, but fatal though? Not likely. Zhao might've actually been the closest he'd gotten.

Anyway, it didn't matter. He _knew_ how to kill someone, by fire, force, or steel; what difference did it make?

Except there's blood drying on his hands and a man dying on his floor and he can't help but think this _matters_.

The guards throw the doors ajar and, spirits, the light washes another layer of reality into the scene before him.

 _What_ else could he have done? He'd woken up with the assassin one strike from his heart; it had been a miracle that he'd managed to grab the dagger from his bedside. The wrangle had been quick, silent, and, as the guards make no attempt to preserve life in the man, deathly accurate.

Zuko notices the open window and the pearl dagger, which had never seen battle in its life, still gripped in his hand.

Zuko has seen death before. He's stood in its shadow, full of glassy eyes and stiff limbs, while the weight of the dead hangs from your shoulders and the cries of the living ring in the air. But he's never had death stand besides him, a body sprawled in front of him with the drooping muscles of the fresh dead while blood-red gloves around his hands.

He brushes off a guard's words and slips out the door… away. He needs to get away.

What did he matter? The hallway echoes. He's always known _how_ to kill, he's _expected_ to, and he's never been short of willing. Yet, his heart drums as if he were the criminal escaping the scene. When he finds himself in the bathroom, he scours his hands until not a trace of blood is left. He still can't catch his breath.

The moment flashes past his eyes. The struggle had been intense, the other man fueled to madness by hate. Or was it desperation? By that time the two had been in equal standing, the assailant in as much risk of death as he was. Was he only fighting in defense then? Had the pause Zuko had used to drive the dagger into into the man's chest an attempt to surrender?

Zuko felt bile rise to his throat.

If it were, Zuko could not remember. To think; the man's last moments were nothing but a blur in his mind. He took the life of a man whose passion had driven him to take matters into his own hands, a man no doubt with a family who already wonders where he is, a man led astray, and he couldn't even recall if he'd killed him in cold blood.

What would the others think? He doesn't want them to hear of it, that in itself speaks volumes, but he knows it's futile. Word spreads like wildfire.

He imagines that Aang won't meet his eyes for months. Katara would not speak of it, no, she would focus on the fact that he was alive and push away the consequence of the fact. Toph and Sokka though, if they were in his position, he was fairly sure that they would not have had second thoughts. For all he knew, they may have already done the same. If you are willing to take a life, you must be prepared to lose your own. Yes. Surely that's true.

The events of Yu Dao though, still haunt him. How easily he'd slipped into his father's hands is what had kept him awake that night. It might have saved his life.

As he passes through the hall of portraits, his forefathers' eyes boring at his back, he knows exactly why he's still restless.

But, it doesn't matter. He heads to the guest room to make use of the rest of the night. There would be an uproar by morning. He might as well catch as much sleep as he can.

He doesn't bother changing clothes. Blood doesn't stain on red robes.


	2. Stone Gloves

The air's still damp from yesterday night's rain. It's early, streetlights flickering off one at a time. The regular citizen of Republic City would be waking up now, showering, eating breakfast, readying the kids for school. They'd turn their radios on, hear static, flick through a couple of stations and then they'd sit by to listen about the attack downtown last night. Hostages taken… three deaths confirmed including the assailant… the authorities have cordoned off the area...they'd hear. They'd hear the police chief's voice, her voice, in a briefing, maybe 15 minutes from now.

Spirits. The briefing would have to wait.

The street, which would usually be thundering with life by now, was silent. She walked right in the middle of it, the blue and red lights flashing behind her. It was the first moment of quiet she'd had since the attack. All that could be dealt with at the scene had been dealt with, and now all she was waiting for was a ride back to the police station. The wait was a blessing. Toph needed a blank moment.

It really was ironic. She'd never been one to care for collateral damage.

She'd walked through murder scenes, assisted as her sergeants took down criminals, walked behind the yellow tape and felt bodies, completely still, on the ground. But never had she thrown her arm out and feel a heart stop a moment later. It was a tense scene, there were innocents on the line, and Toph didn't have the luxury of second guessing her actions. He'd jumped, she'd automatically assumed, but the weight falling towards the earth juxtaposed the thought. The sirens blared in the background, the fighting began to dwindle out, and the body in front of her was still. She'd killed him. The stone glove flew back onto her hand and she was back to barking out orders.

Toph lived for the rush of battle, but she'd never needed to kill. She'd always been able to merely incapacitate, her earthbending allowing her to choose how a scene would play out. A knock on the head was usually enough, stone handcuffs would put them right where she wanted them, a slab of stone would keep them in their place. This time, though, she'd lost control and a puppet had snapped off its string.

She leaned against a streetlight and rubbed a hand over her face.

It was only a matter of time. She was a police chief for crying out loud; it was a given that she had killed before, and would do it again if need be. Toph accepted that.

She did not feel guilty. She did not feel pleased. She did not know what she was meant to feel, but something stuck in her mind, thick and sticky like blood.

A single satomobile rumbled on the empty street and screeched to a stop besides her, one of her officers at the wheel.

"We need to head back now, Chief." The officer glanced down at her hands which were still wrapped in the earthen gloves she had used at the scene. He cleared his throat. "You might want to wipe the blood off your hands."

She let the stone crumble to the ground, and they sped off towards the station without another word.


End file.
